


The Man from W.I.N.T.E.R.

by kesomon



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action, BAMF!Gaby Teller, Gen, Humor, OT3 (hinted), Thrush is Hydra, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesomon/pseuds/kesomon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrush is Hydra is not best pleased by the up-and-coming agency U.N.C.L.E. poking holes in their plans. Deploy the asset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man from W.I.N.T.E.R.

**Author's Note:**

> Fill of [this kinkfromuncle prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=44672#cmt44672). Now complete!
> 
> EDIT: I would like to express an intense urge to squeal now that CA:CW confirmed the existence of the Other Winter Soldiers/a program to make more, and so the idea that Illya could've been a product of that is a step closer to canon. \o/

**September 15, 1964** **  
** _ Somewhere in Europe _

**Ooo---oOo---ooO**

“This...could be problem.”

Pulling the car to the curb and killing the lights, Napoleon could not agree more with Illya’s observation. In the back seat, Gaby leaned forward for a better view, her breath tickling the American’s ear as she muttered a mildly scandelous word in German. He had to agree with that too.

It was never a  _ good _ sign when a veritable army of police presence was camped out around one’s supposedly secure meeting point. Already a crowd was gathered, morbid curiosity drawing them to the spectacle.

It was supposed to be a  _ simple _ assignment. There was a snitch with information about a new local chapter of the yet-unnamed - yet so very irritating - organization that had been a thorn in UNCLE’s side since the Vinciguerra Affair. The hotel was supposed to be their point of contact, just 5 minutes to swap bundles of papers and cash - and yet the 5 cruisers and the ambulance situated at the entrance suggested not all was as sanguine as they had planned. Napoleon hoped the chaos hadn’t scared their snitch off. The man was an odious little weasel when last they’d met - he’d never be on any of Solo’s Christmas card lists - but he’d been twitchy from the beginning of this job, and that had made the American nervous.

Solo didn’t like being nervous. It made  _ him _ twitchy.

Illya took the opportunity of their pause to open the door and unfold from the cramped confines of the vehicle. Not for the first time, Napoleon marveled at the man’s remarkable ability to fit into spaces clearly not designed for height-burdened individuals. The Russian had endured the ride over in their glorified European snuffbox, his knees practically tucked to his ears, without a single word of protest. It would’ve been hilarious if Solo wasn’t certain that the Red Peril would gladly sock him in the nose for laughing.

From the dour looks Peril kept shooting him during the drive, Napoleon clearly hadn’t been hiding his amusement very well. He made a mental note to work on his poker face, and sighed. “Somehow, I don’t think we’re getting that information tonight.”

An irate string of German from the backseat turned his head. Gaby had their radio receiver laid out on the bench, practiced fingers making light work of tuning into the frequencies the police were using. The former chop-shop girl could make anything electronic sing, pulling voices from the white noise with ease. Tonight, though, seemed to be an exercise in patience; her expression suggested she would rather pitch the contraption out the window and run it over. Perhaps reverse a few times and repeat, just for good measure.

"What's the word, Gaby?"

“Nothing yet,” the young woman reported, adjusting the dial. Her brow furrowed slightly in concentration, clutching one half of a headset to her ear in an effort to more easily make out the pirated signal. “There is a lot of interference, unrelated chatter. I may hear something about murder, but does it make sense? Of course not; it may be talking about mushrooms.” She groused something in her native language about inadequate equipment, the universal frustration of all mechanics. “ _ Für die Liebe Gottes _ \- I'm rewiring this later; it’s picking up everything but the police.”

“Let me know if it picks up WMCA Brooklyn,” Solo joked. “I have a bet riding on the Yankees game.”

Gaby only quirked her eyebrows and moved the headset to Napoleon’s ear, where a voice in static-garbled but clearly audible Brooklyn twang bemoaned the thrashing the Los Angeles Angels were giving the old home team. “Hope you didn’t bet on New York.”

As the American barked with laughter, Gaby went back to coaxing sense out of the receiver. Both were interrupted as Illya ducked back inside the car with a mutter in Russian that Solo didn’t catch, snatching the binoculars from the foot well. Sharing a frown with Teller, Solo opened his door, rising to mirror his companion, resting an arm on the hood of the car. “Something up, Peril?”

“I am not sure.” The Russian was focused on the scene in front of them, straining to see past the flash of police lights. Napoleon moved around the car to join him. “The activity going on, ah, Что-то чувствует себя не так.” _ (1) _

The radio crackled with static from the backseat; Napoleon ducked his head back inside the car in time to hear, “ _...-ictim...shot...white male, mid-50’s, no identification; hotel has him registered as a Mr. Leon Walker... _ ”

“Damn,” Napoleon muttered, with feeling, rising back out of the car to thump a palm against the hood in frustration. That was their contact. Someone had gotten there before them - and made sure he couldn’t talk.

“He may have information connecting us to him that the police will find,” Gaby said. “We shouldn’t stay here.”

“Waverly wouldn’t be happy,” Napoleon conceded. “Peril-”

Later, Napoleon would not be able to pinpoint the moment of danger, only that between one moment and the next, the air itself seemed to thicken with anticipation. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as Illya, binoculars trained on the rooftop, stiffened like a hunting dog on point, and Napoleon was suddenly dragged to the ground by 200 pounds of Russian shouting “Down!”

There was an almost gentle ‘ _ paff, paff _ ’ and the glass of the passenger side window exploded, showering them in glittering shards.

Gaby shrieked, flattening herself into the foot well of the backseat; thankfully, a cry of surprise and alarm, not of pain. A hand fisted itself in Solo’s collar and Kuryakin was shoving him into the car, all the way across to the driver’s side, before he rose and fired his weapon in the direction of the sniper, wherever he was. Napoleon could only see the darkness of weathered rooftops, dimly lit by flickering streetlamps and the reflective dampness of a recent rainfall.

Well, if they hadn't been noticed by the police before, they were certainly visible now.

“We need to go.” The Russian said sharply, and tossed the binoculars back into the foot well, folding himself with swift, clinical precision into the passenger seat. “We need to go  _ now _ .”

"No kidding." Napoleon, torn between the need to avoid being shot and the impulse to avoid as much attention fleeing from a crime scene as possible - meaning, very casually and not at all hurried - did his best to maneuver the car back onto the street. It was frustratingly difficult.

“Who the hell is shooting at us and why?” Gaby demanded, drumming fingers impatiently on the back of Solo’s chair.

“Yeah; we haven’t been in town long enough to piss anyone off this much.” Solo.

“I saw body being loaded into bag - was shot, very bloody. Too much damage for close range,” Illya said, dropping the empty clip from his gun and loading a fresh one. “Was designed to draw the attention; it was bait.”

“You mean they were waiting-” Napoleon started, but didn’t have a chance to finish; his companion’s eyes flicked, and without ceremony his hand yanked Napoleon sideways and down, barely avoiding breaking his nose on the gear lever.

The car swerved with the upset of the wheel, fishtailing through a puddle and cocking a back tyre like an excitable puppy before settling with a jarring thunk, engine stalled out.

Solo wrenched himself free of the Russian’s grip, an incredulous rant on the tip of his tongue beginning with “Okay, you need to  _ stop doing that _ -”, before his eyes latched on the neat circular hole splintering the driver’s side of the front windshield, a perfectly aligned match for the one in the rear.

“That is twice. You’re  _ welcome _ , Cowboy,” Peril growled, racking a round in his pistol.

“ _ Spasibo _ ,” the American replied belatedly, dazed. “Bait, huh? I guess we’re the catch of the day.”  _ (2) _

“Oh, this is so  _ not _ the time for puns,” Gaby scolded, and shoved Napoleon back in his seat, crawling over him in rather nimble fashion.

"Gaby, what on Earth are you-"

"нет, ни за что, you need to stay-"  _ (3) _

Illya's token protests for her safety went ignored. Solo made a dismayed noise as well, though that had more to do with the hand Gaby planted in his groin as the woman leaned far forward, reaching under his seat. It afforded Napoleon a lovely view for all of thirty seconds before the chair racked abruptly backwards with a clack, and suddenly Solo had a lapful of very determined UNCLE agent, shoving his hands away from the wheel and his feet from the pedals.

The fit was snug, even with a woman Teller’s size, and a part of Solo was immediately interested, despite the situation. The rest of him was just confused.

“Not that I’m complaining, but -”

“Shut up Napoleon, you drive worse than my blind grandmother.” She wrestled with the gear lever, depressed the clutch and tried to turn over the ignition, which responded with a choking, sluggish groan. “If I am getting shot, it will not be because we could not out-drive a sniper,  _ mein Gott _ !”

Napoleon let out another strangled sound, steadying her hips in his hands. He turned his eyes away - anything to distract him - and his interest immediately wilted as he caught a flash of movement out the left window.

“I think being sniped is the least of our problems at the moment.”

His partners’ heads snapped up and left as though magnetized, following his gaze.

In the alley, a lone figure landed in a crouch following a clearly rapid descent from the rooftops. As the trio watched, they rose, uncoiling like some otherworldly beast, all power and fluidity. They were swathed head-to-toe in black and unmistakably armed with some serious firepower. The face was pale, eyes glittering like burning coals against a shadowed mask of greasepaint. But it was the arm that drew Napoleon’s eye, shining silver in the moonlight as it brought the sniper’s rifle up to bear.

Gaby sucked in a sharp breath. Illya swore something in Russian that was probably banned in 5 countries. Napoleon felt his spine flash-freeze. There was no possible way the assassin could miss at that range - and yet, between one heartbeat and the next, the assassin visibly faltered, the barrel of their rifle lowering just an inch.

“Зимний солдат,” Kuryakin hissed in agitation, eyes wide and knuckles white on the grip of his weapon. “Drive, Gaby, go,  _ go _ , езды очень быстро прямо сейчас!”  _ (4) (5) _

The car roared back to life in Gaby’s hands. Solo wrapped arms around her waist for stability as the vehicle lurched backwards at an impressive speed, maneuvering deftly down the narrow street in full reverse from the gun-toting assassin.

The movement seemed to spur the enemy into action, the rifle snapping back to point. With a warning shout, Gaby abruptly yanked the emergency brake and spun the wheel. The  _ crack-ping _ of a ricochet sparked off the hood of the car, aim fouled. The occupants of the car ducked reflexively. At least they were now facing away from the assassin, and picking up speed.

Napoleon chanced a glance backwards in time to see the assassin abandon their gun, in favor of chasing after their car on foot. He was struck, in that moment, by an uncanny sense of  _ déjà vu _ , so strong it almost made him laugh.

“Well, this is  _ oddly _ familiar,” he remarked, gasping slightly as Gaby jabbed an elbow into his side in the act of a complicated gear change. “Do you have a brother we don’t know about, Peril?”

"This is  _ not _ time for jokes, глупо ковбой," Kuryakin snarled, squeezing off a few rounds out the window. Solo had to admit, the sudden change in the Russian’s demeanor was alarming. Anything that had the Red Peril this distressed was something Solo did not want to make the acquaintance of.  _ (6) _

This opinion was confirmed as he risked a glance back, and realized their assailant was rapidly gaining pace, despite their speed. Napoleon thanked the gods that it was late; a crowded street would’ve been far less forgiving of their urgency. "Uh, Gaby, can this thing go any faster?"

"It's a  _ rental _ !"

Enough said.

There was a dull thud, followed by the scraping whine of metal against metal. The car bounced, lurched, the back dipping under the addition of an immense weight; the vehicle let out a squeal of protest, the scent of burning rubber thick in the air as the wheels skidded ineffectually on cobblestone. Napoleon stared in disbelief. Their pursuer was trying the same tactic Peril had on their first encounter - only this one was managing to slow their car  _ without _ the advantage of a popped tire. Up close, he could see that silver arm flex with impossible strength, fingers gouging tracks in the trunk. The back hood gave way with a rending squeal, tossed aside like paper, and yet still their assailant clung fast.

The poor compact groaned under the assault, tires screeching, skidding, catching traction in spurts.

“It's trying to  _ stop the car _ ,” Napoleon echoed of events past, with less incredulity and quite a bit more alarm.

“ _ Wie  _ fantastisch  _ für den Sohn einer Hündin _ ,” Gaby snapped, swerving wildly in an effort to shake their unwanted passenger loose. “Do you think we can shoot this one, or are you going to admire him too?”  _ (7) _

"Oh, by all means, shoot it."

With frosty determination, Illya took careful aim.

The ‘ _ pop pop pop _ ’ of the weapon’s discharge in the confines of the vehicle was almost deafening, but the Russian could not miss.

With the first, the back windscreen shattered. The assassin jerked as the bullet lodged somewhere in their right lung.

The second pinged off their left shoulder, ineffective; either the arm went further than Solo could see, or the assassin had some serious body armor.

The third buried itself in their leg, causing them to stumble. That metal hand wrenched free, grip broken, and Gaby slammed down on the accelerator as hard as she could. With the lightened burden, the car rocketed forward, leaving the assassin to fall to a knee in the street.

Illya fired a fourth time, but the shot went wild, Gaby muttering apologies as she swerved to avoid another vehicle. They were eating ground at a rapid pace; though Illya kept his gun covering their retreat and a watchful eye, the assassin did not reappear, and with a few turns the city had swallowed their line of sight.

Solo exhaled a sigh of relief, his head buzzing with the high of escaping unscathed, and tried to adjust himself more comfortably in accommodating Gaby’s use of him as a seat cushion.

“Fantastic driving, darling,” he praised, patting Gaby on the leg, and cast a glance at their partner. "You okay there, Peril?"

It was visibly clear to Napoleon that the Russian was still unnerved as Illya turned the right way round in his seat. The man's face was stone, eyes a bit too bright and wild. The hand that did not hold the gun tapped a rapid rhythm against his thigh, a muscle in his jaw ticking like the timer on a bomb as he inhaled, exhaled, slow and carefully measured breaths that Solo recognized as the man's method of remaining calm. No small wonder; they'd been in a fight without anything to punch, and even Solo was feeling the adrenal crash.

Concerned, the American reached out to tug on his partner's sleeve. Muscle bunched under the leather, tensing at the intruding contact as Illya pulled his arm away.

"Peril..." Napoleon frowned slightly, puzzle pieces clicking one by one into place. "Illya, you know what that thing was, don't you?"

Illya glanced his way, then back, fleeting enough to fit one more piece for the former thief, like the tumblers on a vault lock. Napoleon scowled at him, and then nudged Gaby. "Find us a hiding spot, would you? I think we've put enough distance between us and that thing to get a couple minutes of air."

The mechanic obliged. The alley they parked in was dark, dank, and smelled terribly of old, wet decay. There wasn't anything Napoleon could do about that, not with the windows broken, but at least it was sheltered from the street and any curious eyes.

The engine cut out, leaving them in the dark and quiet.

"I'm going to check on the radio," Gaby announced quietly, and managed with minimal protest from Solo to clamber off his lap and into the back seat. Solo nursed the bruises from limbs planted in tender places for a moment with a grimace before he turned in his seat and speared Illya with a look.

"All right. Sharing is caring, Peril. I almost had my head ventilated, I'd like to know why."

Silence. Napoleon blew out a forceful breath, and tried another tact. "Now, I'll admit to being rather shocked by the whole experience, and dear Ms. Teller here was no doubt cursing the day she ever met us-”

"Oh I do that every day, Solo."

"Understandable. But you, Peril - frankly, you were downright terrified."

That got him fingers clenching on leather, a slow inhale-exhale by the Russian as he took the insult in stride. Yet still no response. Napoleon muttered something impolite under his breath and persisted, “God- _ damnit _ , Kuryakin. I don't care what Russian stoicism you're hiding behind. That thing, whatever it was, it wasn't  _ human _ . More like a damn  _ tank _ . It had a  _ metal arm _ , for Christ's sake. It ran us down without breaking a sweat, and it  _ tore the back off my car _ .”

He managed to sound rather affronted about that. It was the second time in an alarmingly short period that had happened; he said as much to his partners. Somehow, anything damaged by the enemy in the line of duty always felt personal. He supposed it was the thief in him.

"Technically, first time was  _ my _ car," Gaby muttered.

" _ The _ cars," Solo stressed, not willing to argue the nuances of possession.

"Drop it, Cowboy," was Illya's response, growled through gritted teeth.

" _ Nyet _ ," Napoleon retorted, flashing teeth in a challenge. "You know us Americans, Peril, we never let anything go if it's shiny enough. And I'd say this incident was plenty for my magpie sensibilities. Of course I'm gonna be interested in something that runs me down without even breathing hard - it got me you as a partner, didn't it?"

“We need to change cars,” the Russian rumbled, deflecting the question.

“No. Well, yes, this car is somewhat conspicuous now being full of bullet holes - but also,  _ no _ ; I want answers.” Napoleon stared at his partner, his friend, and softened his tone. “Illya. Please.” A pause. "Doesn't Gaby deserve to know what almost killed her?"

The look Kuryakin shot him for involving her in his bargaining was downright glacial. Napoleon willed himself to maintain eye contact.

"He has a point," said the woman herself with a half-shrug, leaning forward to prop her chin on Illya's shoulder. "If nothing else, they lost us the security deposit on this car, which you know is coming out of our paychecks."

The look he gave  _ her _ was a bit more betrayed.

His partners in spycraft gazed back, expectant and serene.

"да, хорошо," the Russian finally muttered, looking away, and the silence that followed stretched for so long Napoleon almost thought he was going to have to ask again.

"What I know of this, is classified, highest level," he began, the tap of his finger renewing its anxious rhythm. "You cannot say anything to UNCLE, to CIA, even to KGB. Nobody must know, понимаете? Else we are all dead."

"We understand," Napoleon agreed, for Gaby's benefit. Their compliance didn't seem to settle Kuryakin's nerves, but he nodded shortly and curled his hands into fists against his legs, as if steeling himself for a physical blow.

"There was legend, during training. A KGB ghost story. A thing that shouldn’t exist. They called it Зимний солдат.” He exhaled, turned pale blue eyes to Napoleon's, grim and haunted. “More than a man; faster, stronger, loyal only to the mission. The strength of Russia herself, they said. If that was him...we are lucky to escape. And we are in very great danger.”

_ Zimniy Soldat. The Winter Soldier. _

A chill ran down Napoleon’s spine, unbidden. He licked his lips carefully, remembered another man who’d run them down, a man who now sat next to him but once upon a time was an enemy. That sort of training... “...Russian?”

Illya opened his mouth, hesitated, shut it again. “I don’t know,” he finally answered, accent thick. “It has been story before I was KGB. I hear of солдат, in training, but never saw. Other men, not do so well; they were taken for ‘exercises’, did not return.” He breathed a slow exhale through his nose. “I cannot say more.”

_ Couldn’t say, or wouldn’t say _ , Napoleon thought to ask, but decided better of it. Now was not the time for a full blown interrogation on KGB secrets, not with Peril so spooked and their backs now painted targets. He nodded shortly, the matter dropped - for now - and some of the tension left Illya’s shoulders.

“Whatever that was, ghost or man - obviously, our lead’s a dead end,” The American surmised. “First we need a new car. Then we need to report back to Waverly.” And get Gaby out of the line of fire, was the unspoken agreement between the two men. An assassin who traded on the legend of a ghost story was a threat that wouldn’t give up hunting them.

It was short order to leave their battered car in the alley and locate another parked nearby. With healthy paranoia Gaby and Illya kept watch as Solo made quick work of the locks. Napoleon conceded Gaby the driver’s position in their new vehicle with only a token glare from Peril, and squeezed himself into the back. To his dismay, it had about as much rear leg room as a picnic hamper. Up front, Kuryakin stretched out his legs in the more spacious passenger well with a smug countenance.

“Comfortable, Peril?” Napoleon snarked.

“да, Cowboy, very comfortable,” Peril responded, clearly enjoying his  _ schadenfreude _ as Gaby finished hotwiring the ignition. With a shake of his head and a smirk, Solo stretched his legs over the bench seat.

“Wake me if we run into any more assassins,” he drawled, and tucked an arm over his eyes.

Drifting on the edge of a doze as his adrenaline drained away, Napoleon was not so far gone that he missed the low conversation from the front seat. He slid an eye open, not quite asleep; watched as Gaby pressed a hand to Illya’s arm in support; watched him lean into it, face cast in shifting shadows from the passing streetlamps.

“Something’s still bothering you, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Something about that man.”

Lips pressed fine, thoughtful and concerned. “...Why didn’t he shoot?” the Russian frowned, the tap-tap-tap of fingers audible over the rumble of the engine. “He had perfect line of sight, in the alley. The car was stalled, we were helpless...but he did not shoot.”

Napoleon closed his eyes to Gaby’s troubled gaze, to Illya’s pensive features, and wondered the same. It was a thought that chased him into sleep.

 

The Soldier rose to unsteady legs, spat blood to the pavement, metal arm wrapped across his chest. His wounds were already healing around the offending lead; he would be fully functional in a matter of hours. The damage was negligible, but inconvenient; with his leg lamed and breathing compromised, he could only watch as the taillights of the target vehicle disappeared into the city’s maze of streets.

A frown settled across his features, uncertain. For a moment, in the crosshairs of his sight, he’d seen another man entirely, tall and blonde and recognition in his sharp blue eyes.

“...Steve?”

The name, muttered absently from his lips, was barely a wisp of thought, forgotten as he retrieved his rifle. The U.N.C.L.E. was a growing problem for the men who held his leash, infiltrators of the KGB and other organisations. His handlers would not be pleased that he had failed in his mission.

With a shudder of disquiet he did not understand, the Soldier faded into the shadows, slipping quietly away from the approaching wail of police sirens.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Somehow, this wound up being written third-person limited from Napoleon's point of view, so you'll notice that the Winter Soldier is never referred to as 'he, him, or his', only 'they/their/them', except by Illya, Gaby, and the Soldier himself. This is on purpose, to reflect Napoleon's view that this thing chasing them isn't human. (Also I headcanon that Napoleon is rather _flexible_ , and would be the sort to use gender-neutral terms for strangers unless obviously displayed or given otherwise.) If you use these pronouns for yourself and take offense, I mean no disrespect.
> 
> Non-English translations all obtained from Google Translate so please excuse the terribleness of it:  
> (1) "Something feels wrong."  
> (2) "Thank you."  
> (3) "No, no way."  
> (4) "the Winter Soldier."  
> (5) "Drive away very quickly right now!"  
> (6) "Stupid cowboy."  
> (7) "How fantastic for the son of a bitch."  
> (8) "Yes, fine/alright."  
> (9) "Understand?"


End file.
